


One Arm to Dip With

by armouredescort



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dance, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ballroom Dancing, Beefy!Bucky, Dancing, Dancing Lessons, Fluff, M/M, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Skinny!Steve
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-16
Updated: 2016-05-24
Packaged: 2018-06-08 19:25:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6870379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/armouredescort/pseuds/armouredescort
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Three tours and he managed to get his arm blown off one fucking day before he was supposed to go home. Ironic.</i> </p><p>Bucky's a recently returned soldier trying to adjust to civilian life and a prosthetic arm. Steve is a stubborn dancer unable to keep a competition partner in a studio that desperately needs prize money and new students. After meeting Steve in a medical clinic, Bucky ends up attending dance classes at Steve's studio.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Putting on the Ritz

Three tours and he managed to get his arm blown off one fucking day before he was supposed to go home. Ironic. Could have avoided losing an arm. Would have meant the death of who knows how many civilians, and the five other men in his squad. Wasn’t going to do that.

One moment, he had the shot lined up, the next, pieces of debris were flying through the air, and Bucky realised the car that was rolling towards the outpost had been empty of occupants, but full of explosives. The car flipped once, twice, and he scrambled to his feet from where he had assumed he would be safe to take out the car’s tyres and threw himself down a ditch.

He remembered blood, metal, screaming — his own — flames in the sky and smoke that was pulled away by the wind. Bucky’s team putting a tourniquet around his arm. The thick noise of a chopper coming in to land — when had he gotten onto a stretcher?

Captain Lazarus leant over him in the helicopter. 

“Your name is real fuckin’ appropriate right now, Captain,” Bucky slurred at him.

“You did good, Buck,” said Lazarus.

Bucky woke up in America, having slept through emergency surgery and the flight home. The rest of it was a blur, drugged as he was on a variety of painkillers. When Bucky eventually came to for more than a minute or two, a doctor solemnly informed him that he’d lost most of his left arm.

“Fuck,” said Bucky, and glanced at the bandaged stump.

He repeated it, louder, and turned away to scream into his pillow.

A sheet of metal had torn itself away from the car’s bonnet in the explosion. Spinning wildly out of control, it had sliced clean through his arm, about halfway between his elbow and his shoulder. The heat of the metal had partially blistered the skin. They had cleaned away the shrapnel, stitched him up.

Bucky pushed it into the back of his mind to sort through later. He could think about what he should or should not have done when he didn’t have to talk to his doctor. The doctor — Bucky never learnt her name, mostly because he was in shock, but also because they kept changing whenever they came in — started talking about prosthetics, and the choices he had, plus the military benefits that would continue to cover his physical therapist and other needs.

A few weeks later, Bucky was put into an apartment in a building owned by the government, honourably discharged, had some medals slapped on him, and left to put himself back together. Of course he had therapy sessions, and medical follow ups, but he was essentially alone in his studio. 

Getting used to the prosthetic was the hardest part. It was fiddly at best, with a hook at the end and would lock into odd angles if he wasn’t paying attention. He’d smacked himself in the head a few times just getting it on.

“Yargh,” Bucky growled to himself. “Ye be a fearsome pirate.”

He took it off not long after to scratch his back. Then he dumped it back in the box it had arrived in, and decided to go armless for a while before trying to figure it out. There had to be some way of stopping it from flopping about.

Life settled into a sort of routine. It wasn’t a huge disaster — he had regular medical check-ups, exercises to reduce the pains in his arm, prosthesis consultations. The other people in his building were pretty decent, when he saw them. They were like himself, Bucky supposed, trying to figure out how to be civilians again.

Bucky entertained himself with catching up on movies he’d missed, learning how to cook, dress, and look after himself all over again. Buttons were still a pain, but he had getting jeans on down. Fuck that tear-proof plastic bullshit that food stores put on pretty much everything these days. Fucking bullshit ass, he just wanted some goddamn candied plum geleé while he watched some documentary on dolphins.

Three months into his return, Bucky was faced with a question that he’d tried to avoid: 

What the fuck was he supposed to do now?

His service in the army had entitled him to a reasonable monthly stipend, so he didn’t have to worry too much about money, although he would have to live frugally. Not that he was really a party person. Not that he had anyone to party with in the first place. Didn’t stop life from getting boring. He’d thought that the adjustment period would be longer, but aside from pain management and occasional fits of frustration with the loss of his arm, Bucky felt okay. Just restless.

His psychologist suggested finding a social activity to engage in. Bucky’s physical therapist agreed, even though he’d been going to the gym and doing everything they’d told him to. Basketball was out — he didn’t like it — and so was baseball — the veteran’s team was full, and he didn’t want to work in a huge group anyway. The entrance to the medical clinic had a board for activities, plastered with fliers that hadn’t seemed to be cleared away since the building had been built. The colourful collage was daunting.

Someone coughed from behind Bucky, and he turned fast enough that his prosthetic — that he had worn for his prosthetist to observe in preparation for his second one — swung out and almost smacked the man behind him in the face.  “Sorry! Sorry, I just wanted to put a flier up,” said the man.

He was trim, maybe coming up to Bucky’s shoulder in height, with bright blue eyes and golden hair. Faint freckles dotted his cheeks, with pretty pink lips, and a strong jaw. The expression on the man’s face was sheepish, a flier in his hand and more in the messenger bag slung over his shoulder.

“It’s fine. Bit of a mess, though. Good luck on getting anyone to see it,” said Bucky.  
Damn. This guy was handsome.

“I can always try,” said the man, and he slipped around Bucky’s good side to remove the pins from an outdated movie night, and place his flier over the top.

 _Stars and Stripes Dance Studio,_ declared the flier. _Quote “Putting on the Ritz” to book your first week free. All levels of experience welcome, a range of dance styles, including ballroom, Charleston, and contemporary. Barre training also available._

“You dance?” asked Bucky.

It seemed obvious, looking at the man closer. He may have been slender, but his rolled up sleeves revealed a tensile strength, and his chest — narrow though it was — tapered into a dancer’s waist, legs draped in loose slacks. This guy dressed like he was from a 1940s musical, and should be tapping alongside Fred Astaire.

“Yeah,” said the man. “You should come along. You’ve got the right body for it.”

Bucky gestured to his prosthetic. He felt the gaze of the dancer honing in on the sleeve of his hoodie. Steve frowned momentarily and then smiled at Bucky.

“Anyone can dance. Look, if you pop in, tell them Steve Rogers sent you,” said the man.

Steve seemed more put out that Bucky didn’t feel he could dance than the prosthetic. He held out an extra flier. Bucky took it. Before Bucky could have a chance to take it all in, Steve was waving goodbye and headed out the door, presumably to go put up more fliers.

“Remember, quote ‘Putting on the Ritz’ to get that first week free,” Steve called out.

The door swung shut, and Bucky looked down at the flier again. There was a timetable printed on the bottom. Red, white, and blue stars adorned the paper, each corresponding to a difficulty level. White was beginner, so Bucky assumed that would be the class for him.

He folded the paper away and left the medical clinic to do his groceries. His arm would make it impossible for any of that dancing, and he already went to the gym. He’d find something else to do.

Bucky shoved away the memories of dancing with his family.


	2. ars &  trip s Dance Stud

The robots were here, and they definitely weren’t about to take over the world. Cyborgs, on the other hand, had been around for a while now. Prosthetic technology was rad as shit, and Bucky felt mildly comforted by the fact that he could call himself a cyborg now.

Well, not really. Cyborgs were technically souped up on technology that allowed them to function beyond human capabilities. It wasn’t like he could punch a hole through a wall or anything. The new arm was strapped across his shoulders relied on basic electrodes and muscle movements. Still rad as shit, and as close to cyborgs as society had gotten so far.

“You’re taking this well,” said Jenny, Bucky’s prosthetist.

“Anything is better than the first one I had,” said Bucky.

He flexed it up, watching it bend at the artificial elbow.

“Well, I’d love to get you into a Deka arm, but it’s expensive,” said Jenny. She grimaced. “Hundred grand.”

Bucky pulled a face. Well, he could save. Or guilt the army into funding part of it. But this one seemed pretty good for now. He could pick stuff up now without crushing it, like the orange stress ball sitting on Jenny’s desk. 

“I know. The company that makes them is looking for a way to mass-produce, but anything that specialised is generally ignored.”

Jenny clapped her hands, and said, “Toss it here.”

Bucky threw the ball to her, and she flicked it back. He caught it, barely, flesh fingers doing a better job than his plastic ones, but he still caught it.

“Have you found a social activity yet?” asked Jenny. “Because I can modify your old arm if you need me to. Plenty of modifications out there.”

Great. His therapists had been talking to one another. Not entirely unexpected. It had been two weeks since he’d run into Steve at the medical office, and three weeks since Bucky had been ordered to find a social activity.

Bucky rolled the ball between his hands, letting himself get used to moving the new joints. It was surprisingly relaxing, especially the quiet whirring that came from his left side.

“Not yet,” he admitted.

Jenny couldn’t have been more than a few years older than him, but the look of disappointment on her face reminded him of his mother scolding him as a child. It wasn’t that he wanted to be alone, he didn’t, his apartment was cold and boring, and the people at the gym weren’t exactly sociable at five in the morning. Couldn’t exactly make small-talk when your motivation to exercise was already sapped up by the early hour and resting angry faces of the people around you.

Bucky shifted in his seat, determined not to look away from Jenny.

“Well,” he started, “There is—”

There’s that dance studio. With the cute guy dropping fliers for it all over town. Steve had probably given him a flier to be polite. He had _frowned_ at Bucky’s arm, and that couldn’t have been good. Bucky told himself to shut up, and he hoped that Jenny hadn’t heard him.

“Well?” prompted Jenny.

No luck.

“There’s, uh, this dance school not far from here,” said Bucky.

“Dance? What kind?” asked Jenny.

“A bunch of stuff. I haven’t actually been in there, I just picked up a flier.”

Bucky shrugged. Jenny gave him a pointed stare, as if she knew he was holding back information. She was good like that, probably from being around shy patients. Bucky threw the stress ball back to her. Catching it with one hand, she gave him the thumbs up.

*******

“‘It never hurts to look’, yeah, okay,” muttered Bucky.

Standing outside the building, he could see it was in need of some love. The red brick was covered in a layer of grime, and the cream details were peeling off their paint. Above the door — triple locked, with a metal shutter — the sign swung at an angle, the lettering faded to “ars & trip s Dance Stud.” Well, Steve hadn’t claimed that the studio was fancy.

He’d swapped his arms over, just in case someone asked him to dance right away. Jenny was right — this one was sturdier, and it wasn’t half-bad after she had fixed the loose joints for him, and given him a hand extension rather than the two pronged hook it had come with. Although looking around the neighbourhood, which wasn’t in much better condition than the studio, Bucky had the feeling he probably should have left the hook on. 

He pushed the door open, winced at the bells that announced his arrival, and crept up the stairs. A woman with bright red hair appeared at the top of the steps. She was wearing a black leotard with dancer’s stockings, and pink ballet shoes with black legwarmers. The unimpressed expression on her face told Bucky that he should absolutely not cross her.

“Which class?” she demanded.

“I was—putting on the ritz?”

Bucky glanced down at the flier: beginner’s barre, intermediate feather fans, and advanced swing. Shit. He didn’t know any of those.

“Ah,” said the woman. “Newbie. Did you bring a drink bottle?”

“Yes?” said Bucky.

Shit, how was he supposed to say that he was only there to look, and not to attend class? One class couldn’t hurt, though. Bucky could just not come back after.

“Up you come, and I’ll get you to sign off on some forms,” she said, and she was gone in a neat turn.

When Bucky emerged at the top of the stairs, the studio was considerably better than he expected. The entrance was terrible, and it did smell a little musty, but it was clean enough and had four separate studio spaces, and a bench that ran the length of the building for waiting students. There were a few milling about, including several women with long, thin boxes waiting outside the Sunflower Studio. Next to the reception area’s desk, there was a bank of lockers.

“What’s your name?” asked the woman, handing Bucky a sheet of paper.   
“James,” said Bucky.

“Natasha. I run the ballet, and barre classes, and some of the burlesque classes. Fill out this and sign here,” she said.

It was a standard insurance form, making sure that the participant was aware that the school was not responsible for injuries, and extra costs incurred by taking classes. Bucky signed. It wasn’t like he was getting shot at.

“James Buchanan Barnes. Well, James, you now have seven days of free classes, after that we can discuss payment,” said Natasha.

Natasha dropped the form into a filing cabinet and was about to say something when the studio furthest from them slammed open, and a distressed looking blonde woman stormed out. Bucky jumped at the noise, and slid off to the side as the upset woman stomped down the hall in her sparkly dancing heels. A bob of curls framed her face, which Bucky would have called pretty if she hadn’t been screeching at the other students to get out of her way.

“I can’t do it Natasha. He just won’t stick to the rules. We’re never going to win anything at this rate, and I want to win, Natasha, and he doesn’t. He only cares about making new steps,” she wailed.

She pulled a locker open and dragged out a shiny red sports bag, digging around in it for her phone. It took seconds for her to dial a number.

“Hello, it’s Lorraine,” the blonde sniffled. “I want to dance for you, Tony.”

Behind her, the door slammed open again, and this time an angry looking brunette came flying down the corridor.

“Get out! You ungrateful brat,” shouted the woman. “After all we’ve done for you, you decide to abscond with a rival studio.”

Bucky could detect a pronounced English accent, and she was dressed much simpler than Lorraine.

“Oh, of course. I can come right away, just let me catch a cab, there’s no need to send a private car,” said Lorraine, holding a hand over her ear so she could hear over the shouting.

Natasha turned away and rolled her eyes, selecting a file from the cabinet behind her. She thrust it at Lorraine. Bucky didn’t know what was going on, but it all seemed a bit dramatic for him. Maybe he could just slip out in the chaos.

“I want the money I paid in advance for coaching refunded,” announced Lorraine. “Tony Stark agreed to take me on.”

“We don’t do refunds,” said Natasha, at the same time that the brunette woman shouted the same thing.

Lorraine snatched the file off Natasha. She turned to leave when Natasha cleared her throat.

“Locker keys,” Natasha said, shrugging nonchalantly.

The brunette woman glowered at Lorraine from the corner. Keys surrendered, Lorraine fled down the steps.

“So, uh, I might come back,” said Bucky, edging towards the door.

“No. Stay,” said the brunette. Her face softened, and she let go of the tension in her body. “My apologies for the display.”

“Lorraine must have really pushed a button,” said Natasha.

“She ki—Steve wasn’t interested—well, he does like to go off standard moves,” said Peggy, glancing over at Bucky.

Bucky didn’t miss Peggy catching herself. Rebel, rebel, chanted Bucky’s brain. Steve’s stubborn. Maybe gay? It sounded like Lorraine was trying to get in Steve’s pants.

“This is James,” said Natasha. “James, this is Peggy. She owns the studio.”

Bucky held out his hand, and was met with a firm grip and a smile. Peggy examined him with the same gaze that Steve had. Hers was more steely, though, critical. Behind her, the other students were looking at them curiously. Bucky let his hand drop to his side, and moved away from the light.

“Are you here for beginner barre?” asked Peggy.

“I’m not sure what I’m here for,” said Bucky. “I didn’t really look at the schedule before coming. I met Steve when he was putting up fliers.”

“Well, you can join Natasha’s barre class for now,” said Peggy. “I have to let out the coaches from their rehearsal, so I’ll talk to you later.”

Peggy marched back to her studio and a stream of people left moments later. A golden crop of hair, neatly parted, bobbed up and down in the crowd, but Bucky couldn’t tell if it was Steve or not.

The hall was full, the classes swapping over, and people moving from studio to studio. There were roughly fifty people milling about, chatting happily. A pang of nervousness entered Bucky, his heart thumping as he dropped into old habits of sweeping for threats. The women with the boxes moving into the Sunflower Studio looked like they could have been carrying rifles. Peggy appeared again, and followed them in.

“Here’s your locker key,” said Natasha, drawing his attention away from the people.

He stowed his backpack, shoes, cap, and jacket as Natasha instructed him, and took his drink bottle out. Natasha pointed out the room he had to be in for barre, and informed him she would be along as soon as one of the younger dancers arrived to look after the front desk.

Lots of women, probably three for every one man. It felt like a stereotype to Bucky, but he supposed that was just how it was in American dance studios. He waded his way through dancers of all ages, careful not to bump into any of them, sticking to the wall. The Sunflower Studio women were using massive feather fans, taking them out of their carry cases in preparation for class. Bucky slipped into the Rose Studio, thankful to be out of the fray.

“You are new,” said a girl with big eyes and an Eastern European accent, stretching out her sides. “I’m Wanda.”

“Bucky.”

“Nice to meet you,” she said, and she went back to warming up.

Bucky looked around the rest of the studio. There were big windows across one end of the room, and wall to ceiling mirrors on the other, with large circular stickers on them. They threw Bucky off for a moment, then he realised they would be used for spotting while pirouetting. Down the middle of the room were the barres, moveable by lifting them into place. Spare barres were dumped in the corner of the room, along with a range of squishy mats and floor protectors.

He bounced on the floor experimentally, and discovered that it was properly sprung. The studio might not have looked like much from the outside, but it knew what it was doing. Several other students were scattered around, waiting for the class to start, selecting their spot on the barre. Bucky went to the end, where he could see everyone but they couldn’t see him.

Wanda and a boy her age took the two spots in front of him, their conversation in a language too rapid for Bucky to make out. It wasn’t Romanian — Bucky’s first language — or German, Italian, or Pashto — the languages he’d developed at school and in the military. It could have even been their own language — were they twins?

“Quiet down, class has started,” announced Natasha, closing the studio door.

Bucky perked up, listening attentively as they started to go through the proper warm-ups for the class. Natasha was a good teacher — she wasn’t nearly as harsh as she had first appeared, but she was serious and didn’t tolerate messing around from her younger students.

“Excellent posture, Barnes,” she said.

He managed a quick smile, focusing on balancing his body, and keeping his prosthetic from misbehaving. It wasn’t too bad, and by the end of it, Bucky found himself wanting to come back the next day. The argument between Lorraine and the studio was forgotten by the time Bucky was putting his socks back on.

“Come back tomorrow,” said Natasha. “You have excellent form for a beginner. Steve will be happy to see his fliers worked.”

Bucky nodded, and hoisted his backpack over his shoulder. The barre class wasn’t exactly dance in the sense of working towards a routine, yet there was a sense of excitement as his body started to remember the joys of dance. There were plenty of people to make friends with, and it didn’t appear to be too expensive to sign up in ten week blocks. Hell, he might even find a date. Or enter an amateur competition.

Fuck, the world was his oyster, he just had to make sure he could work his arm into it. In the hour-long class, he had almost forgotten that his left arm was plastic, only when it didn’t move in time with the others.

This could be good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lorraine was the blonde Private in The First Avenger.


	3. It Don't Mean a Thing If You Ain't Got That Swing

Oh, that was a type of pain he hadn’t felt in a while. Muscles Bucky had forgotten about were aching dully. It wasn’t horribly uncomfortable. Nothing worse than when he’d been learning dances with his family for reunions, weddings, funerals, birthdays, graduations — you named it, the family would dance.

Damn, now he was craving _țuică._ He hadn’t really been in the good graces of his family since he’d left for the military, but Bucky reckoned he could beg Rebecca for a bottle if he sent her pictures of the bomb squad dogs that he’d seen overseas. She was a sucker for the dogs.

Actually, had anyone told the Barnes clan that he’d come home? Bucky certainly hadn’t. He didn’t want to face a barrage of pity and “I told you so” remarks, or the residual anger that he’d gone against the family policy of not signing up for the military. Great-Grandma and Great-Grandpa’s families had fled their Romanian homes in 1913, spooked by the Second Balkan War and Bulgaria itching to take back land that Romania had claimed. After landing in America, Great-Grandma Dimitrescu met Great-Grandpa Bărbulescu in an immigration office, and the result was a large extended family that went from Bărbulescu to Barnes in the hopes of sounding more American. After witnessing WWI and WWII, they forbade their children from joining the military, and the tradition carried on.

Bucky’s parents expected him to become a translator, but Bucky had been swept up in debt and the ever present push of military recruiters meant that he’d been carried along by the allure. Serve for the country that had taken his family in. Serve for ability to live freely. We’ll pay for your university.

The Barnes’ had been furious when Bucky told them he was shipping out at the monthly family get together. A waste of his talent. Going against tradition. Spitting in the face of everything his great-grandparents had worked for — they had come here to stay safe, not to let their children run off and fight in wars.

So yeah, Bucky was the family disappointment, but not for the reasons most people assumed.

He unlocked his phone to see if he could find anywhere that sold it. After a few minutes of fruitless searching, Bucky dropped his phone back onto his bedside table. Fuckin’ nothing. He sure as hell wasn’t going to try making the stuff in his apartment — the landlord would throw a fit if he discovered a still in Bucky’s bathroom.

Grabbing his phone again, Bucky sent off a text message to Rebecca. He started with the fact that he was home and was craving țuică like no tomorrow. He didn’t tell her about his arm, or when he’d shipped home. Best to leave that out, especially since it had been—well, a _while_ since Bucky had landed in New York.

He groaned and rolled off his lounge, heading for his shower. He could at least tell his muscles to shut up.

*******

Bucky went back to the dance studio that evening, going for a night swing class this time. Natasha wasn’t at the reception area this time, a girl in her mid-teens sitting behind the desk instead. She was in dance gear, but it looked as if she had already done her classes, wisps of her hair plastered to her face. She was studying from a calculus textbook, a worksheet next to her.

Bucky approached the desk, and she looked up. A name-tag was neatly pinned to her exercise shirt, but that was about the only neat thing about her. _Kamala._ Nice name.

“Hi,” she said, smiling widely.

Wow, her teeth were super white.

“Hey, I’m here for swing,” said Bucky. “Am I right to use the lockers?”

“Sure. Swing is in the Orchid Studio, right down the end. Do you know anything about calculus?” Kamala asked.

“A bit,” said Bucky.

Kamala put her textbook and her worksheet on the counter, pointing to a question.

“I’m not getting the right answer,” said Kamala. “It’s supposed to be forty-eight.”

Bucky scanned the sheet, and then pointed to the fourth line of Kamala’s calculations.

“Sixty-five, not sixty-seven.”

“Wow, that was fast,” said Kamala, flopping forward in frustration. “Thanks.”

Bucky shrugged and put away his bag in his locker. He’d honed his mathematics during the army. It was about ten minutes before class was due to start. He could help with more if she needed it.

“Anything else bothering you?” asked Bucky.

He dug out his drink bottle.

“Nope, just that one,” said Kamala, pulling her books back over the counter.

“Okay, well, see you later,” said Bucky, and he went down to the Orchid Studio.

There was a line of women and men waiting outside the studio, some of them preemptively stretching, others fiddling on their phones or quietly chatting to one another. Most of them had colourful tattoos, one of the men rolling up his pants leg to show off new ink to the admiration of the other swing dancers. Bucky chose to peer inside.

Huh, were they doing rehearsals in there? The women were all dressed up, their ballroom dresses ruffled up and adorned with more sparkles than Bucky had seen outside of a Vegas show. Their hair had been curled and sprayed into obedience, not a single strand out of place, their faces done up with immaculate eyeliner. Peggy stood in the corner, clipboard in hand, while Natasha was lying on her back, legs splayed against the wall and her phone in her hand. Every now and then, Natasha would let her legs drop further.

Music pumped from a radio and CD player, controlled presumably by Natasha’s phone. Dancing to that music was Steve, demonstrating a set of solo moves, and then one of the women would step forward to repeat them. The woman would then partner with Steve and they’d dance a short sequence together, coming around the room to present to Peggy and moving away again. All of them were good, Bucky thought to himself.

He winced as one woman rolled her foot, and she walked off, limping slightly. The music stopped and Bucky overheard Peggy tell the injured woman to go see Kamala for some strapping tape and ice. Natasha rolled out of her stretch and helped Steve walk the dancer to the door. Bucky leapt out of the way and merged with the other students.

Steve caught sight of Bucky, and he lit up like someone had handed him a small and adorable animal. He leant over and said something to Natasha, peeling away from his injured partner.

“I hope you get better soon,” he said, giving her a hug and a pat on the back.

“It’s my own fault,” she replied. “Knew I should have bought new suede. I’ll text you tomorrow.”

The woman hobbled past, Natasha supporting her injured side. Steve waved at them, and then dove back into the studio.

Bucky heard Peggy's voice drifting out, "Thank you all for coming, we'll let you know in the next few days."

"The Rose Studio is empty for changing if the toilets are full," said Steve.

The women marched out with smart precision, chattering to one another. So it was an audition. Bucky wondered if it was to replace Lorraine. He was swept into the studio by the other students, this one larger than the Rose Studio and decorated with framed musical posters on one wall. The mirrors and windows were the same as the other studio.

As the others partnered up, Bucky realised he was alone. He slipped into the corner, hoping that one of the other couples would let him use their partner every now and then.

"I'm glad you came back," said Steve.

This time Bucky didn't jump and almost smack Steve with his prosthetic arm. One up from their meeting back in the clinic. Steve seemed to be genuinely excited to see Bucky, rolling up onto the balls of his feet and bouncing slightly.

"Yeah. Seemed a waste not to use the free week as much as possible," said Bucky.

"I saw you last night. Sorry I couldn't come talk, I was in a rush," said Steve.

"It's fine. You had that incident with that dance partner, and–" Bucky broke off.

Steve sensed the awkwardness in Bucky's trail of thought and clapped him on his shoulder.

"It happens. Let's get started, I'll introduce you, and you can dance with me," said Steve. Then, with a glint of mischief in his eyes, he added, "If you feel up to the challenge, that is?"

"I'm up for any challenge," replied Bucky.

Okay that had sounded cocky, arrogant, and flirty all at once. Calm your attitude, Barnes, otherwise you'll scare the guy off. You're a linguistics nerd come translator come sniper, not a professional dancer, nor a dancer who's done any sort of practice since leaving on your first military tour.

Steve didn't seem to mind though, and had already moved onto calling out the names of the dancers, who would smile or wave at Bucky. He felt a little nervous being at the centre of all this attention, like he was being passed around at a family reunion. It was over quickly, the class looking forward to jumping right into warm-ups.

Bucky took a place up the back so he could mimic the others, feeling his body complaining from yesterday's barre class as he did. Why had he been so confident to be able to dance with Steve? This was going to be a disaster. Trepidation built up as the warm-ups came to a close and Bucky hoped Steve had forgotten about dancing with him.

Yet that blonde crop of hair came through the couples and Bucky found himself in the middle of the room, walking through some basic steps as Steve explained. Steve's hands fit comfortably into his own, guiding them around the room in a tight circle. Bucky hadn't even noticed Steve gently fold his plastic fingers into an appropriate grip.

Close up, Steve was a little sweaty from dancing for several hours, but his eyes were bright and his cheeks were positively glowing. He was a little taller than Bucky remembered, but that meant they were more suited height wise. Steve was saying something, talking to the class, and Bucky could hear it, but it was hard to concentrate when someone so handsome was in front of him.

Was he staring? Oh fuck, he probably was. Bucky didn't drop his gaze to his feet, but he did determinedly stare over Steve's shoulder. There. He could remember the names of the steps now that he wasn't looking at Steve's face.

"Loosen up, buddy. It's okay to look at your partner," said Steve.

He gently squeezed Bucky's good hand. This man was incredibly tactile. Bucky wasn't sure if was just because Steve was a friendly person or because he was shamelessly flirting with Bucky. Either way, Bucky didn't want to let go.

"Okay, we all ready for music?" Steve called out.

There was a chorus of yeses, and Steve lead Bucky over to the speakers.

"Here we go. One, two, three, four," said Steve.

The music filled the room, the dancers picking up a new energy and enthusiasm. It was faster than they had practiced, and Bucky stumbled a few times before getting into the beat. Steve would call out a new step, and Bucky would do his best to remember what it was.

"Sorry for standing on your feet," he said to Steve.

"I should have asked before, but is there anything you're not allowed to do with your arm?" asked Steve.

Bucky almost stomped on Steve's foot. Oh yeah. His arm. The harness that kept it from flying off seemed to be holding up. 

"It's fine," said Bucky.

A man next to them lifted his partner into the air for a quick spin, then put her down.

"We're not doing lifts until next week," Steve scolded the offending couple.

He called out a new step, and the room changed again.

"I can't do lifts," said Bucky. "Well, I can but not safely."

Steve adjusted their grip and spun out, still holding one of Bucky's hands, and spun back in.

"You don't have to do anything you're not comfortable with," said Steve.

The song came to an end and they took a break for water.

If his legs hadn't been sore this morning, they were definitely going to be sore tomorrow. Bucky didn't care, though. It was fun, he was getting exercise (not that he hadn't been exercising before), and he was with other people. Steve was a delight and a good teacher, the memory of dancing coming back to Bucky the more he did it.

They danced to three more songs, and then the class was over. Bucky was waiting to get at his locker when he heard Steve call out to him.

"James! Could you wait a moment? I have something I want to talk to you about."

Bucky turned around and holy shit, had Steve fucking teleported down the hall? Because Bucky could have sworn that Steve was still in the Orchid Studio less than a second ago.

Wait, was this about his arm again? He didn't want to talk about his arm. Bucky prepared himself for an interrogation of exactly what he could and couldn't do, what had happened to his arm, and maybe some other equally well-meaning but ultimately touchy questions. Instead, he felt Steve press a piece of paper into Bucky's hand.

"That's our Facebook group page link. Join so I can add you to the class pages," Steve explained. "And, uh, I know it's horribly unprofessional, but my phone number, in case you wanted to go out for lunch or something."

It took Bucky a moment to realise what Steve was implying, and he must have taken too long to respond because Steve was reaching for the paper in Bucky's hand. Bucky jerked his hand back, clutching the paper.

"No take backs," said Bucky. "How about Saturday lunch?"

"Saturday sounds fine," said Steve.

"You have costume making on Saturday," said Natasha as she sailed past, arm in arm with Peggy.

"Shit, I forgot. Why did you remind me? You wanted me to go out more," said Steve.

"Sunday is free for cuties," said Peggy.

"Sunday is good," Bucky said.

Steve smiled and nodded.

"Well, Sunday. Figure out where you want to go and text me. I've got to go clean up the studio before I can go home," said Steve.

Steve trotted off, escaping before Natasha and Peggy could start teasing again. Bucky retrieved his gear and started to look up places for lunch on the way home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay but consider: Peggy/Natasha

**Author's Note:**

> Shout out to [my coworker](http://archiveofourown.org/users/80000_Bees/) who kindly let me word-splurge ideas at her. Also she came up with the title.
> 
> I'm not a professional dancer, but I have been taking various dance styles for a couple of years now. If you are a professional dancer, let me know! I'd love to hear from you. [My tumblr is right over here, fuck yeah,](armoured-escort.tumblr.com) please talk to me if you're excited!


End file.
